Thursday, November 27, 2014


I woke up early, as I usually do.

If it isn't insomnia, it's the cold-nosed nudging from Whiskey's proboscis.

I slept shockingly well last night. Not a single night visit from the Dame of Darkness who fouls my rest. Not a single nuzzling from Whisk, checking up on me, making sure I'm ok.

The daughters arrived and were back in their childhood beds.

There's comfort in that.

And love.

And admiration.

They're remarkable young women, each taking on the world in their own way. They might not eradicate mental illness or reverse global warming, but each of them, will make a difference, large or small, and as a parent, that's all you can hope for. You've done your job.

Whiskey and I meandered through the sleeping city streets. Traffic was light. Most people were still in bed.

Then, as my daughters arose, I seasoned the turkey.

Turkeys in 2014 are confusing.

Like most things.

We are so inundated with information, how to buy them, how to season them, how to prepare them, how to roast them, how to carve them, how to serve them, how to tend to the leftovers.

We are deluged, turkey-wise and otherwise-wise with more information daily than the average 19th Century person got in a lifetime.

I find the recipe I've used 20 times before.

I add a thing or two to it based on some of the new information I've happened upon. I subtract one or two other things.

It will all even out in the end.

In a couple hours our guests will be here.

Including some ungrateful in-laws.

People who never give thanks.

I suppose they, too, make this a holiday.

We can all use bad examples.

I'm thankful for them as well.

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